More Gray. And Maybe a Few Other Colors.

Even gray comes in different colors.

I haven't been able to get Ashley's story out of my head since I first heard about it last week. I keep mulling it over, thinking and rethinking it, wondering what I would have done in the same situation. Because of course, even though my son is similar to Ashley, I'm not in the same situation. No one is. Just as no other parent is facing exactly what we are facing with Ethan.

I'm fascinated by the hundreds of comments I've read on message boards and blogs. There's no denying that Ashley's story has resonated with people. Which, no matter how you feel about the story itself, is a good thing. People are discussing the care of disabled as a major headline. For a few minutes, parents of severely disabled children are the experts. They are being sought out for their opinions and experiences. To share their child's stories. People are acknowledging how lacking our nation's support system is, and demanding changes so no other parents have to turn to such drastic measures again.

And frankly, I think it's about damn time.

For the most part, the only people who think about the disabled are their parents and families. I'll be honest - until Ethan was born, I never once thought about how people manage to care for a disabled child. I honestly assumed that anyone who was disabled, especially children, automatically qualified for money from the government. That you got Social Security benefits, assistance for in-home nursing care, and free health insurance.

Yes. I was that ignorant.

The truth is, disabled children do not exist in the government's eyes until their 18th birthdays. Until that point, they are considered the parents' full responsibility. There are no additional benefits or support available unless their parents are extremely poor or until the child turns 18. And even then, there isn't much worth calling "support". Extremely limited funds. Few available daycares so parents can work full-time. Limited public facilities that make true mainstreaming possible. I don't think the average person realizes this until it hits them personally. But maybe, through some of these conversations, they're starting to learn now.

However, while I'm hopeful Ashley's story may effect awareness, I got a bit discouraged when I realized the only blogs I saw discussing this story were medical blogs and parents of special needs children. It has not spread much farther than that. (Granted, I do not read every blog that exists. And I did find this one entry at Wonderland - Finslippy's second home - but it seems to be in the minority.)

My family members heard of the story, but hadn't listened closely and weren't really sure what it was about. Coworkers never talked about it at all. When I brought it up in conversation one day, none of them had even heard of Ashley. They had however, heard and chatted about Howard Stern's recent raise, the blizzards in Denver, and the new plans for Iraq. This just reinforced my belief that Ashley will be a passing interest, taken over in a week or two by a new "headline grabber". Only time will tell.

In the meantime, I encourage all of you to read about this story. To think about it, and more importantly, talk about it. Even if you think you've made up your mind, you might want to seek out an opposing opinion, just to get another point of view. There are many good thoughts out there that I think are worth reading - even those I may disagree with. If you're looking for more insight, check these out:

• Carrie passed along this entry from Disability Studies, Temple U in the comments.
• Dream Mom has tackled this topic twice so far; Part I and Part II.
• Ben and Bennie added their two cents in a few different entries as well.
• The Gimp Parade has several great posts, plus many links to other discussions about Ashley.

As Dream Mom says: "You Could Be Next". What many people don't consider is that we all have the chance of becoming disabled one day, or having someone close to us become disabled. This topic does not just affect "those kids" or people who care for them. It affects every human being. We are all equally fragile.

***

I wanted to respond directly to some of the questions that were posed in my last entry:

becca asked: Mete - can you not get some bathtime-related assistive tech. for Ethan?

Simple answer: "Yes". Real answer: "Yes. With lots of money."

Our bathroom is the size of a small closet. There is no way we could comfortably get a lift in there to use. Besides, the door is so narrow that we couldn't wheel him in or out of the room anyway, so he'd have to be manually moved from the lift back to his chair in the other room. We'd have to purchase the lift itself (relatively expensive) and do major renovations to make our tiny bathroom work. And none of this would be covered by insurance, because of course bathing is NOT a medical necessity. At least in the eyes of insurance companies.

Right now, our current system works, using the bath seat we purchased (out of pocket) last year. We know there will come a day when this won't work anymore, and we have a plan in place to deal with that. Frankly, we are outgrowing our current home in more ways than this, and we hope to move in the next few years. Even if we don't, we would plan to build a new bedroom/bathroom area to support Ethan and his needs down the road. At that date, we'd look into the lift vs. roll-in shower solutions.

But honestly, my point in Gray was not to focus on how difficult it is for us to bathe Ethan. Rather, it was to say that Ethan is losing more and more of things he enjoys as he gets larger. His mind is that of an infant, and as all infants do, he loves to be held, to be carried, and to splash freely in the bathtub. But as he grows and gets bigger, I watch him losing out on those things that he enjoys so much.

Yes, we can find alternate solutions. There are ways to adapt, and we employ some of them today. But it still makes me sad that he is losing these few pleasures he has. I honestly believe he was more able to enjoy life at the size he was two or three years ago than he is now. And it will only get harder. Our holding, carrying, (and Jete's rough-housing with him) has grown very limited as his size increased. One of the only ways we can communicate with him is through touch. While I can sit beside him, and hug him, and hold his hand, I still feel he is becoming more and more isolated from us.

I just wanted those who quickly called these parents selfish and evil to think about that for a moment. Think about your child as a baby, and think of never being able to hold them or dance with them or bounce them on your knee. Think about being forced to move them only from their bed to their stroller (or wheelchair) and back again. Think about how that makes your child feel to not have that additional contact. When I thought about my own situation, I could relate to some of their motivation, even if their actions were less relatable.

***

Liza asked - Are you considering seeking a similar course of treatment for Ethan?

No. We aren't.

Obviously, my situation is very different. First and foremost, Ethan is a boy. We will face different challenges as he goes through puberty than if he were a girl. If he were, I still don't think we would take such drastic measures. He's been through so many surgeries and medications, I can't imagine adding more to them right now.

That said, if he were a girl I would probably make decisions as issues came up. If "she" had problems or discomfort with menstruation, I would have no issues with using medications to handle or stop that. If "she" developed a large chest, I'd have to see how comfortable that was with the stroller and stander and look into possible reduction (which several adult women in my family have opted for). I would not be opposed to making my child more comfortable, in the least invasive methods possible.

I don't believe the surgeries Ashley had were that extreme. But if it was something posed for my child, I might have issues with the permanancy of them, and the fact that they were pursued with no real proof that they would help. Yet, there are many who believe these surgeries were not only wrong, they were "barbaric". Some of them would oppose even the lesser measures I might take. They don't believe you should intefere with a healthy body's "natural" processes. Personally, I believe that borders on an argument against any medical intervention.

Of course, I come from a different place. We put our three year old son through a 10 hour surgery, cutting and reforming his bones, slicing into the tendons in his groin and legs, trapping him in a full body cast for three months. All for something that might happen. His hips were displacing, and he might get arthritis in those joints someday. Then again, he might not. We knew that from the beginning. Someone - a purist, perhaps - might say that surgery was unnecessary. Barbaric, even. It's all a matter of perspective.

***

In a week of thinking, reading and analyzing this story, I'm still not sure exactly how I feel. Many things the parents did and said bothered me. The term "pillow angel" strikes an uncomfortable chord. I don't like the fact that the photos on their blog give privacy to everyone in the family except Ashley. And I find the arguments that they did this in part to prevent sexual assault weak, especially considering how many pedophiles are out there.

However, I do believe they love Ashley. I do believe they had her best interests at heart. And I do believe they had the full backing of medical and ethical experts. I do not believe they "mutilated" her as some are claiming, nor do I believe they are abusers or criminals as others say. And so, I find myself defending them.

But really, I feel as though I'm defending myself. I'm defending the right of a parent who knows and loves their child to be able to act in their best interests. After all, we are Ethan's voice. We are the only ones who know him at his core - his needs, what makes him happy, what causes him distress. It frightens me that someday, because a stranger disagrees with us, we may lose the right to decide what is best for him. Ethan's voice would be silenced.

***

Today is Ethan's birthday. He turned five. In five years, he has been through so much, and I'm sure the future holds much more. Sometimes I think we're up to the challenges, but other days I'm not so sure. I worry about the future. Will he stay healthy? Will we stay healthy? Will we continue to be able to care for him? Will our insurance woes get worse? Will he need more surgeries? Will he be in pain? Will he be happy?

We can't answer those questions. We can only do our best to make today the best it could be for Ethan. I think of Ashley's parents, and I can't help but believe they are trying to do the same for their daughter.

I wish there were more easy answers. I wish no one had to make decisions like this for their children. I wish things weren't so damn complicated. I wish the colors on the horizon always held more blue, and less gray.

Gray

I don't know how I feel about this. (More info here.) I really don't.

You'd think there would be a simple response. "It's wrong!" "It's right!" But it is not that simple. Nothing about this kind of life is simple.

There are those that say it's ethically questionable. I can totally see that. Putting a child through unnecessary surgery? Messing with a body's right to grow up? Forcing them to be a "child" forever, even into adulthood? It's unnatural. In fact, it's immoral.

Maybe.

Ethan is already 50 pounds at practically-five-years-old. A SOLID, dead weight, 50 pounds. I can barely lift him now, and Jete has to do all major maneuvering. I can't give him a bath because I can't safely get him in and out of the tub.

Soon, he won't be able to have baths anymore. He loves baths. He loves being submerged in the warm water. Nothing relaxes his tight muscles like a warm bath. But a 75 pound (wet) child can not be safely transported in and out of a tub. He'll need to move to sponge baths. To roll-in showers where he is cleaned but not bathed. Showers that do not give him the feeling of floating; of being free.

And I'm pretty sure that, in a few months, I won't be able to hold him anymore.

Ethan is my baby. He is practically-five-years-old, but developmentally, he is a baby. He will never be more than six months old. He loves to be held. I love holding him. And I know I won't be able to do that ever again. I can sit beside him, or lay with him on his bed, but never again hold him in my lap and just cuddle him. He'll be so difficult to move that he'll mainly spend all of his time in his wheelchair or on his bed, physically separate from the rest of us.

Now. Tell me again what's moral and what's not. I dare you to.


Updated to add: This was featured last night on Nancy Grace. I'm normally irritated by this show in general, but I could barely sleep after watching it, I was so angry. No impartial information here; we all know what we're SUPPOSED to think after watching this show. It must be nice to be so perfect and self-righteous.

We Wish You a Scary Christmas*

Updated to add: I'm starting to feel a bit guilty. So, lest anyone accuse me of worrying them needlessly, or worse, using scare tactics simply for the ratings (ha ha), let me say now: Fear not. Everything turns out okay by the end of this post. Unfortunately, Life doesn't give the benefit of a "skip to the end of the story" to see whether or not it has a happy ending. Hence, the scary week I detail below.

-Mete

***

Our Christmas weekend started out with the traditional gift of vomit. CG brought yet another illness home from daycare and christened our living room rug just before bedtime. We thought (hoped) he had just eaten too many holiday goodies at the daycare party. But this repeated two hours later, and then again an hour after that. and again. and again...

Saturday, the vomiting finally stopped. Jete and I had gotten almost no sleep the night before, trying to prevent cleaning every rug and blanket we owned. Finally, late in the afternoon, I got motivated to start prepping for the Christmas Eve party we host for Jete's family. I was up late into the evening, baking cookies and preparing as much ahead of time as I could.

Sunday morning, Christmas Eve, I woke up eager to get an early start. I slipped into the bathroom before tackling the rest of the baking and cooking I had on my list. I glanced down at the toilet paper for my usual half-hearted inspection and my heart stopped. Spotting.

The spotting was pink, but naturally, I was still concerned. I called my OB and left a message for the doctor on call. As I sat on the couch waiting for the return call, I twirled my hair and stared into space, thinking. Would they do an ultrasound to confirm the inevitable? What about the 15 people coming to my house in a few hours? Was this some kind of sick joke? Did I really need to find out I'm having another miscarriage on Christmas Eve?

Dr. I. called me back. I explained what I saw, and he asked if we had heard the heartbeat in the office yet. Yes, I told him, we had seen it on ultrasound twice. "Well, then. You're usually safe once you've seen the heartbeat." I laughed on the inside, a bitter laugh. Yeah, "usually" safe, except for that whole last time when we saw the heartbeat twice and it DIED ANYWAY.

He was understanding about my concerns. "Really, it's probably nothing. And unfortunately, there's nothing we can do about it even if there is an issue. I don't see any reason for you to spend the holiday at the hospital. Call if it gets any worse, or come in first thing Tuesday when the office opens, if it makes you feel better."

After checking, AGAIN, about a hundred times, I decided it might not be as bad as I originally thought. He was probably right; it was probably nothing. Women spot all the time. No point in getting all worked up yet. I'd just go on about my Christmas business. Nothing takes your mind off an impending miscarriage like assembling seven cookie platters.

A few hours into my effort, my father called. "Did Sete go to the hospital?"

My sister Sete, a Type 1 diabetic, had been having some blood sugar issues. Her readings were really high and no matter how much insulin she took, they weren't going down. Her doctor finally recommended she go to the local emergency room to be treated. My mother had gone there with her.

Everyone insisted I finish my work for the party. Most likely, they'd get things under control in a few hours and send her home. There was no reason for me to sit there with them when I had other things to do. Throughout the afternoon, I got periodic updates from my mother. In the meantime, I was a nervous wreck. I distracted myself by baking, helping Jete clean the house, watching the boys - and trying not to go to the bathroom. AGAIN.

Evening came, and the party prep was basically finish. Just five minutes after the first guests arrived, my mom called me again. They were admitting Sete to stay overnight. She was doing okay, but the treatments they had tried weren't working like they'd hoped. They didn't want to send her home until everything was completely stable.

I felt terribly guilty for not going to see her at the hospital. But she called once she got to her room and told me to stay home. She was exhausted and was just going to rest anyway. I went on with the job of hostessing, but once things got rolling, I kept taking opportunities to escape to my bedroom. Laying on my bed, I'd watch Miracle on 34th Street, and zone out for a few minutes. I was having a really hard time being "on" with the guests. I just didn't care.

Finally, around midnight, after all the guests had gone home, Jete and I slunk into bed. Less than an hour later, CG woke up, coughing and crying for me. As soon as I stood up, I knew the spotting had changed. I went to his room to comfort him, then quickly went into the bathroom and turned the light on. When I checked, the light pink spotting from earlier in the day had changed to heavier, bright red, blood.

I got back into bed with a thud, and Jete asked me how CG was. "Fine," I told him. "But... the spotting's worse." He rolled in my direction and sighed. "But there's nothing we can do right now, right? Whatever's gonna happen will happen?" I nodded. Within a minute, he was snoring again. I stared at the ceiling.

Finally, I fell back asleep again. This time, we were both woken with a start around 3 AM. Ethan was crying. We both rushed to his room to find him completely congested. His nose was blocked with mucus. More frightening, he sounded incredibly wheezy. He seemed to be gasping to catch his breath.

Like a newborn, you can't explain to a severely disabled child how to cough or blow their nose. We tried a few different positions to make him more comfortable - holding him, rocking him the recliner - but nothing worked. Finally, we decided to take him into the bathroom and give him a steam treatment. (Thank you, 45 viewings of Terms of Endearment, for the idea.) I sat on the bathroom floor next to Ethan until the hot water ran out. He was breathing easier. Jete set him in an upright position on the recliner and set up his own sleeping quarters on the couch to be near him.

When morning finally came, I was beyond exhausted. The Christmas gifts remained unwrapped in my closet. As time was short, I had planned to wrap them first thing Christmas morning before CG got up. But now, my heart wasn't in it. He had gotten so many gifts the night before, I felt only a little guilty. But my idea of a nice Christmas morning - just the four of us, opening gifts - was out the window.

My parents came over in the early afternoon to watch the kids so we could go visit Sete at the hospital. She was doing much better by the time we got there. They had given her with antibiotics for an infection that most likely caused the issues. Her blood sugars were finally under control after being on an insulin IV overnight. Assuming everything stayed stable once she was back on her pump, there was no reason she couldn't go home that day. She eventually got discharged around 10 PM Christmas night.

When we got back home from visiting, I asked my parents to take CG to the Christmas meal at my grandparents' house. We had planned to take Ethan, but his illness obviously changed things. I was too tired and distracted to socialize, even with my own family. But I wanted CG to enjoy Christmas as much as he could, opening his gifts with his cousins. They left with him, and I took a much needed nap. It certainly didn't feel like Christmas.

By Tuesday morning, I was an emotional wreck. I called the OB office at 8:30 exactly, as soon as they opened. I needed to be seen, ASAP. I was bleeding ("spotting" didn't seem strong enough), and I needed to be checked. They told me I could come in immediately.

When I got to the office, there were already a few other women in the waiting room. I gave my name at the desk and sat as far away from everyone else as possible. Two visibly pregnant women started a conversation across the room. I was stuck directly in their path.

"When are you due?"

"February."

"I'm due in the middle of January. But hopefully they'll take this baby sooner, 'cause I can't be pregnant no more!"

"Tell me about it! I'm so sick of being pregnant."

"Do you know what you're having?"

"A girl."

"Me too! I think it's the girl pregnancies that make you more miserable. Even after they're born. They're so CLINGY. Which baby is this for you?"

"My sixth."

"SIXTH? Wow!"

"Yup. After this, I'm done."

"Me too! This is my second, but I'm all done after this. I'm not havin' no more babies. I want my body back! I want to be able to wear cute clothes again!"

I glanced at the two of them. As tears sprang to my eyes, I looked away. I hated them. Two women who were due at nearly the same time that I should have been. I couldn't help but think... in nine months most women have a single baby. And here I was, most likely losing two in the same gestation time.

The doctor finally called me in. She asked me about my symptoms ("Spotting, then BLEEDING.") and what the status was at that moment ("Well, it's turning brown again. But did I mention the BLEEDING? The RED bleeding?") She got out the doppler thing and started looking for the heartbeat. And looked. And looked. I stared at the dots on the drop ceiling, waiting for her to give up already. We all knew where this was going.

After about a minute of searching, I heard it. The galloping horses. She turned off the doppler. "Well. Heartbeat sounds fine. 152." I looked at her, disbelieving. "Are you sure that wasn't mine?" She laughed. "No. Yours was around 90." She moved on to check my cervix. Long and closed. Everything looked okay.

As I sat up, she gave the usual explaination. Many women bleed, and many times we don't know why. But everything seemed good so far. I should have an ultrasound and go from there. Since I was already scheduled to come in the next day for the nuchal check, I could just keep that appointment.

For the next 24 hours, I was more than skeptical. I would not be lulled into a false sense of security. Just because it had a heartbeat on Tuesday didn't mean it would still have one on Wednesday. Wait and see. Wait and see.

Wednesday, I had my ultrasound. Amazingly enough, it went fine. There was an appropriately sized (13 weeks, 2 days) creature. There was a heartbeat. There was no visible sign of why I had been bleeding. She was unable to get the nuchal thickness because it was moving around too much. Which didn't bother me, since we decided to skip any additional genetic testing. I want the answer to only one question: "Will it die?" If the testing can't tell us that with 100% certainty, it won't change anything.

The bleeding has basically stopped now, although I still get the occasional pink or brown smudge just to keep me on my toes. The nausea is consistent, my boobs hurt, and I'm enjoying round ligament pain whenever I do too much. I guess those should all be good signs. Still. I'm not holding my breath. Two more weeks until my next appointment. Who knows what can happen by then?

But I'm not going to worry about that now. Not until next year.


Happy New Year, everyone. I sincerely hope 2007 is a better year than 2006 was, for me and for all of you. I'm thinking there's a chance it will be. I mean, there's a seven in the number. That's gotta be good, don't you think?

(* Let's just hope the next post isn't titled, "...And a Crappy New Year".)

Coming Out Of the Dark

I lifted my head off the ultrasound table and turned to Jete.

"Well. It isn't dead yet. That's something."

He smirked. "You optimist, you." We both laughed.

Dr. I. came back into the room with the tissues he'd been searching for. "Hey. No laughing in here."

"Sorry," I said, as I wiped the goo from my stomach. "I'm telling bad jokes."

Jete stood up with my coat. "Dark humor."

I mentioned the joke again that night at a friend's house. No laughter then, just sympathetic winces.

Guess you had to be there.

***

Things are progressing so far, I suppose. I'm around 11 weeks now and I've had two quick ultrasounds just to make sure there's still a heartbeat. No science involved with these; they're basically for my own peace of mind.

After Christmas, we go in for the nuchal screening and some added bloodwork to look for genetic defects. Since we've got nothing else to go on, they're working with the assumption that the miscarriage was caused by a genetic problem. They want to be able to tell me as early as possible if there's a chance things might be heading down a similar path.

Although, honestly, I don't think we would change our course of action if there was a "possible" genetic problem. Most of the positives are false results. And even if it was a true issue, what would we do? If something was 100% fatal, with 100% certainty, we'd probably take action. But the gray areas?

Every situation is different, and I can totally understand why someone else would feel the need to take action if their child had a genetic problem and they knew early enough on. But for us... how can have a problem with a disabled or handicapped child? Especially when we already have Ethan? What does that say about him?

Of course, this is all getting way ahead of myself. Let's just wait and see if it will still be alive at the next scan. Then we'll take the step after that. No point in counting my embryos before they hatch.

***

Your comments on my last post made me cry. Seriously. Granted, it doesn't take all that much to make me cry on a normal day, never mind when I'm newly pregnant, but still. I was touched.

I've been watching people lately, online and in real life. I've started to face that the hard edge human beings have, the one that ultimately causes war and strife, runs deep. As a child, I was an idealist, using each birthday candle to wish for World Peace. I hoped that, over time, wars would end around the world. Girls would start being nice to each other on the playground. People would stop being so damn MEAN all the time. After ten years or so, I realized my wishes were never going to come true, so I started using them on more selfish things, like a nice boyfriend to come along.

As I've grown up, I've realized it's never going to stop. As long as someone in the media is mocking Britney Spears or someone at work is gossiping about so-and-so, there will be others to join in. The mobs will gather, the rocks will be thrown. The mud keeps slinging, and it's getting deeper every day. We're all drowning in it.

It makes me really sad how cruel people can be. I try hard to make a conscious efffort not to participate in it, but it gets me sometimes anyway. It makes me wonder if it's not better to just go back into your home and lock the door, and hide from everyone. Leave all the ugliness Out There.

But I've also come to understand that it's not that simple. If you shut yourself off from people completely, you miss out on the goodness they can offer: the kindness, support and good will people can display when they want to. Like your comments on my last post, or the love the world poured out to the Kim family this month. There's got to be a little hope for the world if we can display that much goodness.

***

I'm sure this post seems disjointed, but inside my head it makes perfect sense. Maybe I'm a sentimental pregnant woman, or maybe all that Christmas music is making me sappy. But for the first time in a long time, I'm starting to decide that things don't have to look all that bleak. I'm allowing myself the hope that this new year could be a slightly better one than the last, both for the world at large and my own little corner of it.

I sincerely wish you all a tall glass of Hope this Christmas as well. It's hard to find, but it's delicious.

Things Left Unsaid

First: Ethan is fine. That boy is a wonder. He sails through surgeries and medical procedures and keeps on smiling. He frequently inspires me to stop being so damn whiny and mopey. But he isn't ready for his canonization yet as far as I can tell, because he's nowhere close to completing that miracle.

But, yes. He's doing well. Thank you for asking.

Oddly enough, the worst part of the whole surgery ordeal was our hotel. It's a long, rambling story - especially the way I tell it - so I'll leave it at this for now: I never lodge formal complaints about bad service, never-ever-ever, and yet I've written a three-page letter to the manager. I'm sure I'll bore you with all the gory details eventually. But for now, I'm tired.

I feel like I've been tired for more than half of this past year. And for much of this time, I've been hiding it. I'm tired of being tired. And I'm tired of hiding it. I'm tired of pretending I'm fine all the time so I don't have to explain the things left unsaid.

When I wrote this post, after much debating, I took something out of my first draft. The original last line of that entry was: "Wednesday morning, I got my period." I took it out because, eww, gross, telling random strangers about your period? Why would they want to hear that?

But yet I hated taking it out. I felt it was important to the story. For four weeks, I was on a hormonal rollercoaster. Exactly four weeks after the D&E, I suddenly felt human again, and four weeks and one day after, I started my period. In my opinion, that sentence was key to everything else. It explains why I found solid ground, seemingly out of nowhere.

When I wrote this post, I was leaving something out. I didn't mention that, not only was it eight weeks after my D&E, it was nearly four weeks since my period. More importantly, my cycles are normally shorter than four weeks. If my cycles were back to their usual length and routine already, I was already a day late for my period.

But I ignored it. I focused on the miscarriage and my recovery from it, and pretended I wasn't wondering at all about the symptoms I had been having. Even though they were constantly on my mind.

And when I wrote this post, I talked about Ethan's surgery and my recent busy-ness. I mentioned my recent fatigue, but didn't explain it. Just left it out there as an excuse for my sudden drop off the face of the earth.

Until now.

I'm tired because I'm pregnant again.

No, we didn't plan for this to happen so soon. My doctor recommended three months after the D&E before we tried again. But we weren't "trying". I wasn't sure how long it would be before I'd be ready - emotionally, mentally, physically - to try again. "Trying" was the last thing on my mind. This pregnancy, like my first two, was a surprise.

I know with that statement I have just moved into the category of Annoying Girl Who Has Multiple OOPS Pregnancies And Brags About It, even though bragging is the last thing I'm trying to do. I'm almost ashamed by our freakish fertility. I have followed stories of women struggling with infertility, online and in real life. I know how painful it can be to watch others try and get pregnant easily, never mind being caught by a surprise pregnancy. Never mind being caught by a surprise pregnancy, THREE TIMES.

(I don't say "pregnant by accident", because none of my children were accidents. We wanted them, and welcomed them, even if they caught us off guard.)

But yes, I'm pregnant. I'm not holding my breath that anything will come of it, but there it is. It's something that has been going on in my life that I've left unsaid, even though it's affecting everything else. I have no focus at work. I'm exhausted. I have no energy to do anything at all. I barely muster up enough energy to read other blogs, never mind write in my own. This post alone took three days to finish.

I have a lot of feelings about this pregnancy, good and bad, and I'd like to get them all out of my head eventually. I'm about 9 weeks now, and hope to get out of the first trimester exhaustion soon. Between the last pregnancy, the in-between hormone shifts and this new one, I feel like I've been in the first trimester for six months now. It's getting old.

There has been very little joy surrounding this pregnancy so far. The reaction of most of our family and friends was something like: "OH." I can't blame them, since it was pretty close to our own reaction. No one wants to get too attached just yet. I think our family is afraid to get our hopes up by showing any excitement.

I had an early ultrasound, at only five weeks. There was a properly sized sak and - as expected - no heartbeat yet. But even seeing a heartbeat would have been no consolation to me. I've seen one before and it didn't mean a damn thing.

My symptoms so far have been a constant mild nausea, supreme bitchiness, and fatigue. Also, a mild depression that won't seem to lift. It's been a rough few weeks. There has been more than one moment when I thought, "If it doesn't work this time, I give up. I don't think I can go through this again."

But I'm trying not to think about that too heavily right now. I'm just trying to get through today. Then tomorrow. We'll see what happens after that.

This morning, I have my first official prenatal appointment. I'm sure it will be very similar to the LAST first official prenatal appointment I had - talk about the treatment plan, maybe schedule some additional ultrasounds. Poke and grope and measure. All the usual fun stuff.

And then, tomorrow, we go back to Boston for Ethan's post-surgery follow-up. We're registering him for school the day after that. CG starts daycare next Monday. And on, and on, and on.

I hope you all had a wonderful Thanksgiving. It's been a hard year, and was a stressful Thanksgiving, but deep down, I knew I had a lot to be thankful for. Even if I left most of it unsaid.

News Flash

This may come as a bit of a surprise. But... did any of you know - it's the MIDDLE OF NOVEMBER?

I'm not joking. I sweartogod.

The past two weeks have gone by in a blur of business and busy-ness. I started a long and rambling Halloween post (shocking, I know) but when I actually had the time to sit and write, Blogger was giving me heaps of trouble. By the time it seemed fixed, I was back in busy mode. Besides, at this point, Halloween is so last month.

I've been busy to the point that I'm barely keeping up on my reading. This is the first night in weeks that I've been up past ten, and you should know by now that 10:00 PM is the threshold for Mommy time in this house. CG goes to bed at 8:30 or 9:00 and Ethan and Jete retire around 10. As soon as that happens, the computer and the TV both go on, and I enjoy the familiar humming of technology.

Lately I've been too tired to even turn on the PC many nights. When I do muster up some energy, it's just a quick check on a random handful of blogs. MAYBE I'll muster up a lame comment or two, but no way do I have the energy to write a real entry on my own.

I'm forcing myself to put clear sentences together now because I'm sure I'll be offline for even a little while longer. Our main focus right now is Ethan's upcoming surgery. I call it Number Two. (Get it? Ha. ha. HA.) Partly because it's his second surgery this year, Number One being back in August. And partly because it's Part II of the hip-work he had done last March.

Compared to the ghosts of surgeries pasts, this is supposed to be a small one. Jete, Ethan and I head to Boston on Tuesday, and if all goes well, we should be home by Thursday. The surgery itself should only take about two hours. No casting. We're keeping our fingers crossed that it will be a nonevent.

It's funny how your first born child - a mere four years old - can be having surgery and yet, it isn't that big a deal. Naturally we're concerned, and we'll be worried sick for those two hours, but we're relatively calm compared to the last time around. We went for our pre-op appointment last week (an entry in itself) and despite the torrential downpours, five hours spent waiting to see doctors, and five hours spent on the highway, it was almost ... relaxing.

(I said almost. We're kooky, Jete and I, but not crazy.)

We'll be working of course, right up until the last possible minute, since we've got zero vacation time left for this luxurious visit to our state's capital. Somewhere in there I'll have to pack. And get referrals. And notes to the hotel to prove it's not a pleasure trip, so please give us the piddly 5% discount, okay? And spend time with CG, who's staying at home and will most likely punish us for weeks to come for abandoning him.

Please. Try to contain your jealousy. You can't all live a glamorous life like me. I'm just lucky, I guess.

8 Weeks (Or 28 Weeks. Whatever.)

Today marks a milestone. I've been holding my breath for eight weeks now, waiting for today to come.

Since I left the hospital eight weeks ago today, I had this date in the back of my mind. As I gathered my things to go, I asked the nurse what to expect next. "They're sending the material away for a genetic workup. It should take 6-8 weeks for the results to to come in. If you haven't heard anything by eight weeks, give the office a call."

Eight weeks and no word, so I finally gave myself permission to make the call. The nurse in the office put me on hold while she went to fetch my chart. I listened to soothing music until she picked up again.

"Mete? They got the results back from the genetics lab. Unfortunately, they were unable to obtain a useable cell culture. They couldn't tell anything from the testing."

"Okay..."

"Alrighty. Have a nice..."

"Well, wait. So that's it, right? There's nothing else, right? No other tests?"

"Yes, that's it."

I pretty much knew that was going to be the answer. I mean, it had died at least a week before the D&E, definitely longer. They warned me from the beginning that there was not much chance of getting a valid sample.

I'm not really sure how I feel about this. I'm disappointed. It would have been nice to have answers, a place to point the finger, or something to rule out.

But I'm also relieved. One of my biggest concerns was finding out the gender. It would change things tremendously for me to have that knowledge. With this door shut, it can stay an It. Not a boy or a girl; not a son or daughter. Just a lost possibility that never developed into anything more than a bunch of bad cells.

(Think what you will, but denial's working for me right now. Okay?)

So really, getting no answers is a good thing. In fact, I may have overlooked other positive things that came out of this. I think it's time I start looking on the bright side. Why don't we examine:

The Top 10 Reasons Having A Miscarriage Ain't So Bad

1. You actually fit into - and get to wear, this season - those new pants you bought just before you found out you were pregnant.
2. You get to use up all those dang 'pads cluttering up the bathroom cabinet.
3. Fear and worry + no more baby + ensuing depression = 10 pound weight loss.
4. You don't have to deal with the combination of your major insurance changes coinciding with giving birth and enrolling an infant.
5. You're saving tons on gas money by not having to drive to the OB-GYN as often.
6. You can start drinking alcohol, if you so desire. (So what if you don't want to? You know you could.)
7. Maybe now, the two pregnancy tests you have left from that three-pack won't go to waste.
8. You get a few extra months out of those expensive family photos. And, a few bonus months of only cramming two children into your tiny house and tiny car.
9. The food apathy is finally gone, and you get to experience cravings after all. (PMS cravings, of course: "Salt. Chocolate. SALT! CHOCOLATE!")
10. No more A lot less Slightly fewer mood swings.

See? It's all good. Sheesh. I don't know WHAT I was complaining about before...